WEEK 52: Slamming doors and broken glass

I almost miss the flicker of pain before a thin layer of frost douses the turbulent flame. It starts at the edges and slowly creeps inward until no warmth remains.

Suppressing a shiver, I reach for him. My fingers grasp shredded denim, his knee right beneath the surface. Desperation lodges in my throat.

He glances at my lips.

Wait, I want to say. Don’t go.

His mouth takes on a faint, wry twist as he calmly removes my hand.

The silence is worse than slamming doors and broken glass. It’s deafening. All I can do is watch helplessly as every wall comes up, high and wide, shutting me out completely. So fast it makes my head spin.

Gripping the push rims until his knuckles blanch, he turns his back to me with a low mutter, “My mistake.”

I reach for him once more.

But it’s too late. He’s already halfway across the room.

“Tech,” I finally whisper.

Pausing at the threshold, his tone is formal like that of a stranger’s, “Please make yourself at home, Julia. You’re welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

I blink. “I’m free to leave?”

A cynical laugh rips from his chest, the polite façade already abandoned. “You’re not a goddamn prisoner. Do whatever the hell you want.”